Coming home always feels like stepping into a time capsule—familiar sights, sounds, and scents instantly transport me back to childhood. This trip was no different.
As I pulled up to my mom’s house, I noticed she had moved her car into the street so I could park in the driveway. It was a small gesture, but one that made me smile. She opened the door as we walked up the stairs, and there, at the top, was Bleue, wagging her tail like the excited puppy I remembered.
Bleue is 10 years old now—a far cry from the tiny, energetic three-month-old I adopted years ago. She was my first “child,” and seeing her still so vibrant felt like a blessing. I gave her the belly rubs she loves, and for a moment, it was like no time had passed.
Inside, my dad was in his usual spot, seated comfortably in his chair. At 91 years old, he still looks strong, and I couldn’t help but admire the care my mom has given him in his old age. She does it with such grace. I handed her a card I’d brought for her—something I’d been excited to give after missing her birthday and the holidays. She set it aside, which disappointed me slightly, but I didn’t push it.
The house hadn’t changed much. It’s still small, still packed with far too many things, but it’s warm—figuratively and literally. My mom always keeps the heat cranked up, and as much as I love warmth, it was stifling. When I mentioned it, she quickly turned the thermostat down without hesitation. That’s my mom—always attentive.
Bleue nudged me eagerly, her silent request for a walk unmistakable. The rain had cleared, and with the daylight still holding, I decided to take her out for old times’ sake. She had a youthful spring in her step, and for a moment, I forgot she’s now 70 in dog years. She walked the neighborhood like she owned it, just like I’d trained her, and we both enjoyed the crisp, fresh air.
Back home, my wife and daughter had settled in from the five-hour drive from D.C., and I joined my parents to catch up until dinner. On the menu was a favorite from my childhood: cow foot soup. My mom had made it especially for my visit. The first serving was a bit light on the meat, but when I mentioned it, she happily dished up a second bowl packed with all the good stuff. It was delicious—comfort food at its best.
Later, my siblings stopped by. My sisters came and went quickly, and my brother stuck around for a bit before heading out with his family. He seemed tired, but it was still nice to see him.
During dinner, my dad expressed his wish for us to join him at church the next day. My wife quietly excused herself from the table, sensing where the conversation might go. I explained that we hadn’t come prepared for church, but he pressed on. I made the mistake of saying his church was “old” and that I’d outgrown it—poor choice of words, to say the least.
That comment opened the floodgates for a passionate exchange about faith, salvation, and why church was important to him. I tried to explain my perspective, recalling how I’d attended with him on a previous visit and found it wasn’t my cup of tea. After some back-and-forth, we agreed to let the matter rest.
I later joined my wife, who had wisely escaped the conversation, and soon after, my mom pulled out old photo albums. Flipping through pictures of our younger selves was surreal. Time moves so quickly, but those memories remain vivid. I felt a deep sense of gratitude for this moment—being here, in this small, overpacked house in East Flatbush, Brooklyn, surrounded by love and history.
Later that night, I heard my mom exclaim, “Hallelujah!” She had finally opened the card I gave her. The joy in her voice was unmistakable, and it felt good knowing it had made her happy.
God bless this house. It may be small, crowded, and hot, but it’s filled with love, laughter, and memories that make it a home.
– Calcie, Social Dad DC
SOCIAL DAD DC 